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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462116">making a lark of the misery</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/epigraphs/pseuds/epigraphs'>epigraphs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Madam Secretary</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, boarding school flashbacks, college-era, dealing with grief, henry is the softest of soft bois</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:00:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462116</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/epigraphs/pseuds/epigraphs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If there’s one thing Elizabeth learns quickly at fifteen (and she’s always been a fast learner) it’s that most people have some version of the same reaction to learning that your parents are dead. </p><p>(Crosspost from ffn/teammccord.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elizabeth McCord/Henry McCord</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>making a lark of the misery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello hello, I’m back with more college-era dead parents fic, which seems to have become somewhat of a brand for me. Not complaining though. This is vaguely based on a lilacmermaid prompt (they’re truly the best source of inspiration), which I’ll leave at the end. The title is from “dorothea,” by Taylor Swift. Thank you to A and M for their help with this.</p><p>This is <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13783447/1/making-a-lark-of-the-misery">crossposted</a> on ffn, where I'm teammccord.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>She’s in her second year of undergrad, it’s the week before fall finals and all Elizabeth wants to do is get drunk, maybe make out with someone, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> forget about the existence of tangent vectors and integrals until the inevitable headache catches up with her the next morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an off-grounds frat party, and while Elizabeth would normally cringe at the idea of spending her Friday night in a sticky basement with warm beer and terrible music, right now she’s glad for the distraction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Becky begged off to go see some guy in Alexandria, so Elizabeth is alone tonight, which she knows isn’t necessarily smart, but she really can’t bring herself to care. And besides, she can fend off unwanted attention just fine on her own, thank you very much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She bypasses the bowl of punch on one of the card tables — she wants to get drunk, not sick — and pops open the tab on a can of beer from the adjacent table before settling into a corner and casting her eyes across the room. Elizabeth is pretty sure that if she tried, she could find someone she knows here, strike up small talk with a kid from a lecture, commiserate about exams and internship applications. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, though, she’s content to lean against a wall and just observe, fading into the background of people. Their voices overlap into a hum of chatter, with an occasional enthusiastic shout when someone takes a shot. The room is comfortably warm; put enough people in a tight space together and it doesn’t matter that the snow outside is turning to sleet, blanketing UVA in slush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes a sip of her beer and winces. It’s warm, as expected, and the carbonation makes her nose tickle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half an hour and another beer later, Elizabeth feels pleasantly buzzed. She’s idly swaying along to Duran Duran, contemplating whether or not to join the sweaty throng that’s dancing in the middle of the room. Really, she’s just happy to stand in this corner and occasionally take a few minutes to talk with someone — a mix of hellos and drunken compliments from sorority girls and looks of pointed disdain she sends to frat boys whose eyes betray their intentions entirely too much for her liking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s not what she came here for, is it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tall boy with a mop of jet-black hair has been eyeing her for most of the night, and, after taking a healthy swig of liquid courage, Elizabeth approaches her mark. (She doesn’t know what it says about her that she’s in this for a night and nothing more. She knows her aunt wouldn’t approve, but it’s not like her aunt approves of anything she does at all.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s gotten good at this — playing the nice girl, the sweet girl — and she kind of hates it. Men look at her and see blonde and leggy and not much else. She reaches his side of the room and bats her eyelashes, relishing in the attention of his eyes raking up and down her curves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says, and she thinks he’s trying to be suave. It’s not really working. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out the guy — his name is Michael, she learns at one point, but Elizabeth thinks she’ll have forgotten it again by morning — is a half-decent kisser, at least when he’s got a hand in her hair and the other on her ass and she’s wedged in the corner of a frat house hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s by far not the best she’s ever encountered (not that she’s slept with guys in droves) but there’s enough heat between them that she just lets herself </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a few minutes, unconcerned about finals or winter break or anything in between. It’s almost nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth’s got a hand on his bicep and she can feel him pressing into her leg as she’s mentally weighing the options of leaving him out to dry or following him home tonight. Suddenly, he pulls back, pupils blown. “You like that, yeah?” he says, his voice purposefully low. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes all of Elizabeth’s willpower not to roll her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He unceremoniously slides a hand under her t-shirt, climbing up to her chest, and Elizabeth instinctively pulls back. It’s one thing to drunkenly make out with a guy at a party; she’s not about to publicly go to third base with one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She would laugh at the way his eyes go owlish at the loss of contact, but he’s already affronted. “Don’t be a prude,” he says, and she feels the heat rising in her cheeks. It’s not like she should have expected any better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to go now,” she says, placing a hand on his torso to try and un-pin herself from the wall. She hates this, hates getting caught in places and situations she cannot control. She hates that a little part of her brain is already starting to blame herself for ending up here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches her wrist with his hand, and she yanks her arm away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said, ‘I’m going to go now.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy lets out a snort, raising his hands in the air, a mock-surrender. He doesn’t think he did anything wrong, she knows this, and it makes her blood boil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you gonna do when you get home, call mommy and daddy and cry on the phone?” There’s mockery in his tone, and she thinks she hates that most of all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, actually,” she says, voice sharp as flint. (Later, when she thinks back on the night, she’ll wonder how he managed to hit her right where it hurt the most, how she fell for it. Now, she just snaps.) “my parents are dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she turns on her heel and heads down the hallway, out the front door and into the December night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there’s one thing Elizabeth learns quickly at fifteen (and she’s always been a fast learner) it’s that most people have some version of the same reaction to learning that your parents are dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s simple, really. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, their eyes go wide, and they try to hide it, because sure, you both know they’re surprised but that’s not the reaction they’re supposed to be having right now. They’re supposed to be sad, or consoling, or empathetic, or pitying, but not too much of any one of those either, depending on how well they know you. So they try to come up with an appropriate mix of all four, throw out an “I’m so sorry,” or “I had no idea” for good measure, to try to assure themselves that you understand that they care but have no idea how to deal with this revelation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like she does either, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s at this point that she jumps in, to reassure them that no, it’s okay, and they didn’t overstep, and she’s dealing and she’s doing alright and they can move the conversation to something else, and she can see (if not hear) the other person let out what’s almost a sigh of relief that they can change the subject and not have to deal with it anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(They seem to always conveniently forget that Elizabeth can’t stop dealing with it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever,</span>
  </em>
  <span> because it’s her life and her parents and they’re never coming back. But she’ll forgive them; it’s not like most people are particularly good at genuinely caring about others anyway.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The predictability of people’s reactions to her (Plight? Fate? Situation? She still hasn’t quite decided which one suits her best.) … circumstances means she not only knows what’s coming, she’s also acutely aware that there’s a certain kind of power to be found in how and when to tell someone the particulars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is that petty? Possibly. Manipulative? Probably. Does she care? Sometimes… no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows that's bad; her parents raised her better and the irony of that last thought is glaringly obvious, but sometimes, when the reality of everything sinks in and she realizes she’s alone in the world save for Will (and an aunt who doesn’t count), it’s comforting to know there’s at least one thing she can control. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s her defiant reclamation of agency in a world that seems determined to leave her utterly unmoored, and she clings to it like a sailor to his lifeboat in a choppy sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In August of her third year of college, Elizabeth is fresh off an internship in her congressman’s field office (organized by her aunt and reluctantly accepted) and has disavowed any minuscule notion she ever had about possibly running for office one day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she’s balancing her mathematics course load with poli sci (“But isn’t that just a buttload of reading?” was Will’s helpful contribution when she told him she was declaring a second major) and she’s in an upper-level theory seminar this semester. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One by one, they introduce themselves to the professor, say why they’re in the class and what they hope to learn from it. Elizabeth instinctively pegs two as wannabe congressmen, three as World War II geeks, and makes knowing eye contact with the two other girls in the course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s one more guy left to introduce himself, and she’s been wondering about him since he sat down in front of her. The corduroys scream nerd but the haircut and physique beg to differ; he’s some weird mix of aggressively clean cut and bookish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says his name is Henry, that he’s auditing the course for his masters in Religious Ethics.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth surveys the group. This should get interesting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three weeks in, the class really begins to find its footing. Unsurprisingly, the future candidates and war enthusiasts are all too happy to band together in their Straussian ideals, while others take more dovish stances. Most of the students fit quite neatly in their ideological boxes, and Elizabeth sometimes idly wonders what will happen if no one ever leaves them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there’s Henry. He quotes Aquinas from memory, invokes Hume and Foucault, but doesn’t seem to shy away from interventionist thinking. He’s an ideological puzzle she can’t quite crack — fundamentally decent and not afraid to invoke the potential ethical implications inherent in every choice — and she has an unidentifiable urge to figure him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What gives?” she asks him unceremoniously one day after class. They’re the last people left in the seminar room, and Henry is packing up his books, methodically stacking his papers and arranging them in his leather satchel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up, clearly startled. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re studying religion, and I get that.” She gestures, all-encompassing. “I get the way that informs thinking, but for someone with an ethics background, you’re damn comfortable working through just war theory to justify a lot of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry cocks a brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As opposed to all-out pacifism?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs, eyes crinkling, and Elizabeth doesn’t know what’s so funny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would it surprise you,” Henry says, his face full of mirth, “that I’m also in the Marines?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Elizabeth’s turn to startle. It does explain a lot — the jawline, for one thing — but she wonders how both sides of him can coexist and rationalize the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry seems to sense her next question and gets ahead of it. “And, no, not a chaplain. Fighter pilot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out a theologian fighter pilot is good to keep around for any and all conversation. After her initial prodding, which she later apologizes for (Henry just laughs and says that he honestly expected it, considering how willing she is to debate their classmates on a weekly basis), they end up talking for over an hour, leaving the seminar room for the adjacent quad and settling down on a bench under an oak tree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talk rational choice and moral obligation, the benefits of an ethical code grounded in faith, and whether or not the Flyers are a good hockey team. Henry’s from Pittsburgh, she learns, from a big Irish-Catholic family that still struggles to understand how the prodigal son ended up in flight school in Virginia while also getting an ethics degree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth cracks a smile. She can tell he loves his family despite the disagreements — especially his siblings — and she’s glad for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you?” he asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitates. It’s a delicate thing, picking and choosing how much of herself she shares. Normally, she can gloss over the whole </span>
  <em>
    <span>Elizabeth the orphan </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing because it’s easy to redirect, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel as straightforward with Henry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My younger brother is pre-med at Duke,” is what she settles on, avoiding instead of dealing with it outright. “Though we’ll see if he sticks with it. If it were up to him, he’d be spending all his time doing crazy things like off-roading with his friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a sore point between them: Will’s apparent disregard for any sort of risk to himself. Somehow her kid brother emerged from the car accident not more cautious but less so, and Elizabeth spends a good chunk of her time in a constant state of worry about him and his safety. She figures it’s the price she’s got to pay — for not being there when it happened, for leaving him when it mattered most. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Henry doesn’t follow up; their conversation moves away from their families and back to their seminar. They’ve got a paper deadline soon, and Henry says he’s planning on grabbing books from the library, and would she want to join him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth’s made some friends in her years at UVA — her roommate Becky, even though she’s sometimes a handful, girls from her classes, from club meetings too. But she’s not one to cultivate a large social circle, so Henry’s offer, and tacitly implied potential friendship, catch her off-guard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth’s used to being alone, in more ways than one, and she’s comfortable that way. But what’s the harm in one more person joining the fold?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry smiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>/ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth holds her breath as she cracks open the window that leads to Sukaly’s fire escape, careful not to make a noise and wake anyone in her hall. It’s quarter past eleven on a Tuesday in March, and Connecticut is finally showing the first signs of spring, the whole state thawing after a long winter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth winces as the hinge creaks slightly and waits, holding her breath, for ten seconds to make sure no one heard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confident that she hasn’t been found out, she puts one leg through the window, then her torso, and finally the second foot, landing on the metal grate with a soft thud. She zips her jacket up all the way and turns off the small flashlight she brought, slipping it back into a pocket. Elizabeth knows the fire escape steps by memory at this point; she can’t risk climbing them with a light on, in case anyone looks out their window and catches her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She makes sure to pause right before she reaches a landing, checking that the lights are out in the rooms, or the curtains are drawn, but she’s in luck tonight, and she arrives on the roof in a minute flat. Her beat-up sneakers are quiet on the concrete, and thankfully, the ice that coats the roof in the winter months has thawed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes ten steps to reach the side with the best view of campus and the small town that lies beyond. There’s a chimney she can lean against, red-bricked and warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth perches on the side of the roof, mindful of the guardrail, and pulls her knees up to her chest. Above, the milky grey sky is dotted with stars. She misses the pitch-black nights they got at home, with golden constellations that her dad took time to explain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought immediately makes her eyes prickle, and Elizabeth takes a deep breath and tries to swallow down the urge to cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s only been at Houghton for a few months, and a mid-semester transfer was never going to be easy, especially not in her case. But she didn’t expect </span>
  <em>
    <span>this,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the constant stares and pitying looks and pre-formed cliques.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The middle and upper school operate out of separate parts of campus, so it isn’t even like she’s got Will anywhere close. Besides, her kid brother seems to be dealing with all of this much better than she is (go figure). He joined the soccer team and found a group of friends and she knows that it’s hard for him too, that he misses their mom and dad, but he’s adjusting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s relieved, honestly. Elizabeth knows that she’s responsible for Will now, that it’s just the two of them (Aunt Joan doesn’t count), but God knows she has no idea how to deal with any of this herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a persistent ache, missing them. It’s not as acute now, filled with less regret (She wasn’t there; she slammed the door; she didn’t say “I love you.”) but it’s still constantly in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She remembers her first day at Houghton in October vividly — moving into her dorm on a Sunday, standing at the front of the classroom on Monday morning, her new uniform itchy and tight. Her English teacher hadn’t told the class anything specific, just that Elizabeth and her brother were new students from Virginia, but that didn’t stop the eyes that followed her all day, stares she could practically feel on her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rumour mill started up almost immediately, swift and unrelenting. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Had their parents divorced and sent them to boarding school? Did they get expelled? Was the family embroiled in some kind of scandal, forcing the children into hiding? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was incessant, and all Elizabeth wanted was for it to stop. At night, she lay in her twin bed under a comforter that wasn’t hers, curled up and shivering as she sobbed. It was the only time she let herself cry: fat, hot tears that slid down her cheeks and rimmed her eyes red. During the day, she kept her head down, did her work and tried her best to disappear altogether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she had to rank the worst groups of people in the world, teenage girls would be high up on her list — right after the obvious ones, like dictators and warlords. It might be a bit dramatic, she’ll admit it, but really, Sophie and her group of friends are in a league of their own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite her own trust fund, Elizabeth’s wealth was never obvious (she’s certain their parents deliberately made sure of it) so they took every chance to pick on all the things she somehow didn’t know how to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>right. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Her hair wasn’t curled; her Chucks were scuffed; she didn’t go skiing in St. Moritz every winter, or on boating trips in the Caribbean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They needled and stared and scoffed and laughed and eventually, Elizabeth snapped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my dad</span>
  </em>
  <span> is going to charter a Concorde so we can fly to London for Christmas,” Sophie had proclaimed, tucking a strand of perfectly curled chestnut hair behind her ear. “See the sights, you know? And spend way too much in Harrods.” A laugh, and then, “I bet Lizzie over there will be staying at home, it’s not like her parents would fly her or her brother anywhere fun.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth could hear Sophie laugh and her friends chiming in, and she whirled around in her chair, facing them in the dining hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We spent part of last Christmas in Paris,” she said, voice syrupy sweet, “but that might not work out this year. I think I’ll have to settle for a trip to the cemetery, to see their graves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she stood up from her seat, collected her tray and bookbag, and left the dead-silent room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, sitting on the roof of Sukaly, Elizabeth can look back on those first few months with a chuckle. Sophie and her crew aren’t exactly friendly, but the open hostility has ceased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon her English teacher’s urging, she joined the debate team. Mr. Gardner had called her “fiery” and Elizabeth doesn’t know if it was meant as a compliment, but it’s been fun to be able to channel her emotions into something productive and dissect her opponent's arguments with precision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks that in time, she may even fit in here at Houghton, with its wrought-iron gates and stone halls and ivy-covered library. But for now, she’s glad for the roof, and the quiet. She looks up and tries to find Orion’s Belt, glittering in the distance — her father’s favourite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bricks of the chimney are warm against her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soft </span>
  <em>
    <span>thump</span>
  </em>
  <span> startles Elizabeth enough that she tears her eyes from the journal article she’d been reading, tipping her face up toward the person who just dropped something on her blanket. She’s sitting outside on the quad, soaking up the last of the sun before the autumn chill sets in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile creeps over her face as Henry comes into view, wearing a ratty Marines sweatshirt and carrying his satchel, as well as a brown paper bag that’s identical to the one that now rests at her feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I brought you a sandwich,” he says by way of greeting. “Egg salad. Figured you’d’ve forgotten to eat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” She reaches inside to pull out the sandwich — her favourite, from Joe’s Deli downtown — as Henry sits down cross-legged on the grass in front of her. He takes out his own sandwich, a BLT from the looks of it, and then proceeds to neatly fold up the paper bag and lay two napkins on top of it. Elizabeth’s own bag is a ball next to her right knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was Patterson today?” Henry asks between bites, and Elizabeth shrugs. She’s been regaling him with horror stories about her Number Theory professor and his trainwreck of a lecture, and Henry’s now properly invested. It makes her smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He only threw his chalk twice, which I think might be a record low for him.” Elizabeth picks a chip out of the open bag Henry set down between them, salt and vinegar, the crinkly kind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should start keeping track,” he muses, “see if there’s a pattern in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Way ahead of you, bud,” she says with a smile. “Abby’s got a whole graph; we update it weekly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry laughs, his eyes crinkling as he does, exposing tiny laugh lines amid the freckles on his face. Elizabeth catches herself counting them and forces herself to look away. She digs around for the napkin she crumpled up earlier and dabs at her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever since she not-so-subtly called him out after class, Elizabeth and Henry have started studying together, debating the finer points of political theory and generally developing a friendship she isn’t quite sure how she fell into. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s nice. Henry’s not as much of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy</span>
  </em>
  <span> as most of the ones she knows — she thinks the whole grad student thing might be a part of it, but also the fact that he’s a proud nerd — and he challenges her thinking in ways she appreciates. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s easy with him; she doesn’t feel the need to put on a facade, or change who she is to make him more comfortable. She gets to be a little bit brash and a little bit messy and Henry’s calm and tidiness balance it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she hasn’t brought up her parents yet and she’s not sure when she will. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right now, everything’s easy. They talk about their classes and about UVA, about politics and morals and what they want to do with their lives. Their conversations are deep, but they’re safe too. Nothing too close to the heart, nothing to expose </span>
  <em>
    <span>little orphan Elizabeth</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows it’s selfish, but it’s nice to be known just as herself for once, not as the girl with the dead parents. It means she doesn’t have to explain, to reassure, to justify — she can just fit in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you done Monday’s reading yet?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry’s question snaps her out of it, and she takes a second before shaking her head. “That’s a Sunday problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. "I figured.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elizabeth’s mock-affronted; they’re both well-aware that Henry does not share her penchant for last-minute procrastination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a smirk on his face. “Just that you might find part of it interesting, considering your paper topic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scrunches up her nose; the packet for next week is over a hundred and fifty pages, and she’d quite frankly planned on a skim. “What part?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry shrugs, his expression a picture of innocence. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you,” he says, while his lips turn up in a shit-eating grin. Elizabeth picks up the wadded-up napkin and throws it in the general direction of his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry ducks and raises his hands in mock surrender. Elizabeth glowers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what you are? You’re mean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry just grins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Parents’ weekend might be the thing she’s been dreading most about college. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aunt Joan didn’t even help her move in, so there’s no way Elizabeth is expecting her to show up today (not that she’d want her to). She knows there are plenty other people whose parents won’t be here, but the absence of hers isn’t easily explained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>UVA has been abuzz for a week, everyone on edge in anticipation. Signs have been hung, program flyers distributed, and Elizabeth is determined to avoid it all. She borrowed two books from the library and she’s planning on getting ahead on a paper and some problem sets. Hopefully, it’ll keep her busy enough that she won’t have to leave her room at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her roommate Christine hasn’t been able to talk about anything else all week, and Elizabeth is this close to snapping at her. But their coexistence is rocky at best — their sleep schedules are diametrically opposed and more than once, Elizabeth has had to shove her roommate’s things back over to </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> side of the room — and she doesn’t want to agitate it further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Elizabeth leans back against the cinderblock wall, cracking open one of the books she got. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Shining</span>
  </em>
  <span> should be enough to take her mind off it all. Ten pages in, she hears the click of the lock on their door, and groans. Of course she’s here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth dog-ears the page and sets the book down on her bed. Hopefully this will be quick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is my room,” she hears Christine say as the door swings open, “and this is my roommate, Lizzie.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine’s parents follow her into the room and Elizabeth gets up and waves politely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They do introductions, and then Christine’s parents get a quick tour of the shoebox space. Christine says she’ll be right back, but she needs to go use the bathroom. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Great. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you having a good first semester?” Mrs. Park asks, and she nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re from Virginia, right? Christine had mentioned you knew all the best spots in town already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth nods again. “From Charlottesville, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how nice. I imagine your parents will be joining you later?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Christine not told them? Clearly, she hadn’t. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> she hadn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They, uh…” Elizabeth flounders. “They won’t be able to make it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Work keeping them?” Mr. Park chimes in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, they…” God, she’s going to have to say it, isn’t she? There’s no getting out of this one. “They were in a car accident, my freshman year of high school.” She shrugs and tries for a smile that probably comes out a grimace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mr. and Mrs. Park’s eyes go wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Park says, in that way that mothers tend to do. There’s a split second where Elizabeth thinks she might be opening her arms for a hug, but thankfully, she just fidgets awkwardly with the sleeve of her blouse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, really,” Elizabeth lies, because what else do you say? That she wishes this whole weekend just didn’t exist? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever the dad trying to fix things, Mr. Park suggests that Elizabeth could tag along with Christine for the activities that weekend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she says, probably a little too quickly, “but thank you for the offer. I’ve actually got plans with some friends whose families can’t make it either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lie comes more naturally than it probably should, but Elizabeth doesn’t have it in herself to care. She doesn’t miss the obvious, thinly-veiled looks of relief that take up residence on their faces, the awkward well-wishes for her and her “friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Christine opens the door and tells her parents they need to hurry, or they’ll be late for an event with the dean, Elizabeth is all too happy to see them leave. She waves good-bye and watches as the door swings shut with a soft click.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In mid-October, a few guys in the religion department are holding a house party (“Theologians are allowed to have fun?” Elizabeth asked when Henry mentioned it, a smirk on her face. “Ha, very funny,” he replied with an eyeroll.) and Henry is bringing Elizabeth along. It’s a casual thing, and they’re friends after all, so Elizabeth chooses not to read anything into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s been quite a bit of that lately — her choosing to ignore things, like the way Henry smiles when she plops down at their library table, or the way he holds open doors for her, or the way her traitorous heart sometimes speeds up when she spots him. They’re just friends, she reminds herself, and it’s better that way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d had a boyfriend at Houghton, and he was kind until he wasn’t. She’d caught him in a hallway once, necking a girl from the field hockey team half an hour before he was supposed to take Elizabeth to dinner, and that had been that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like Elizabeth has sworn off guys entirely — she’s the first to admit to her share of hookups — but she thinks she’d be perfectly fine staying single for the rest of her life. It’s easier, safer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, she and Henry are just friends. (Or at least she keeps telling herself that.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This party turns out to be a definitive upgrade from a sticky frat basement; the living room is cozy, there are candles flickering on the windowsill and someone’s broken out the jazz records. It feels adult, with the table full of liquor and wine, and Elizabeth pours herself a glass of Merlot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s still drinking out of a plastic cup, but hey, red wine is meant to be room temperature, and this one doesn’t even taste half-bad. She’s leaning against an armchair, surveying the crowd, when she sees Henry wave her over from the other side of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth had begged off for more wine when he’d gotten into a discussion with a friend about Buddhist dharma and she’d been entirely too lost to even pretend to pay attention. Now, she heads back to the corner where he’s talking animatedly, beer bottle in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She met Greg earlier, but there’s a third guy with them now, and Henry makes the introductions. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” the newcomer says. His name is Andy and there’s a knowing twinkle in his eye when he adds, “Henry’s told us so much about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat rises in Elizabeth’s cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears. She lets out a short laugh, trying her best not to dwell too much on why Henry is telling his buddies so much about her. They’re just</span>
  <em>
    <span> friends.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Only good things, I hope,” she says, and she knows it’s a canned reply but she can’t think of anything better right now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy laughs. “Honestly, we’re still impressed that someone managed to take Aquinas here down a peg or two — make him see the realities of life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry turns scarlet and Elizabeth suppresses a chuckle; his penchant for arguing based on ethics alone, regardless of complicating circumstances, had been a heated point between them in the first few weeks of their friendship. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glad to help,” Elizabeth quips. She shoots Henry a grin. “Got to dust off my debating hat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you on the team?” Andy asks, and Elizabeth shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not here. I was co-captain in high school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More like,</span>
  <em>
    <span> placed at nationals three years in a row</span>
  </em>
  <span> co-captain in high school,” Henry helpfully supplies, and she gently jabs him in the ribs for it. It was high school debate, not the Olympics. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lizzie</span>
  </em>
  <span> Adams?” Andy says, disbelief in his voice. “From Houghton, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Elizabeth’s turn to be stunned. “Yeah, that’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It turns out Andy’s a fellow former debater from a different New England boarding school, and he insists she and Joey once eviscerated his teammates to the point that it was all they talked about for days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’d say I was sorry, but…” She trails off, shrugging her shoulders with a smile, and everyone starts laughing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth likes Henry’s friends, she decides. They’re easy to talk to and not pretentious, and they don’t push. Andy’s kid brother had played against Will’s soccer team in high school, and they laugh about how small New England is, but beyond that, their conversation sticks to school and the world and how Jeanine bought good wine for once, despite her rocky track record. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She feels pleasantly warm tonight, from the wine and the company. Elizabeth thinks she hasn’t been this relaxed in weeks. She sneaks a glance at Henry, who’s leaning against a bookcase, talking with someone, hands akimbo to emphasize his point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He catches her eyes and smiles, and Elizabeth finds herself blushing again, involuntary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jeanine shoots Elizabeth a knowing look, and she shakes her head. It’s not like that between them. They’re just friends.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry, ever the cradle Catholic gentleman, offers to walk her home when the party winds down and there’s only a handful of people remaining, cups scattered across the room alongside empty bottles and bowls. (She likes to tease him about it, how he’s sometimes too chivalrous for his own good. Henry just shrugs and says his mother raised him that way, that June McCord was not to be messed with when it came to manners. Elizabeth finds it terribly endearing, and does her best to ignore the pang it causes in her heart.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their walk is quiet, and Elizabeth buries her hands in her jacket pockets. Henry’s somehow immune to the cold; she wonders if it’s his natural disposition or a result of basic training. She suspects it’s the former. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They come to an awkward stop in front of Kimbark, neither quite sure what to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for walking me back,” Elizabeth manages eventually, peeking out from behind her scarf to offer Henry a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” he says. He’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, impatient, like he’s waiting for something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for inviting me.” Has talking with him ever felt this stilted?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad you came.” Henry takes a step forward, into her space. She holds her breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry tilts his face down, lips just a hair’s breadth from hers. Elizabeth can feel his breath on her cheeks, warm and heavy. “May I?” he whispers, and all she can do is nod as her eyes slip shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth is soft against hers, his kiss tentative and slow. Henry wraps one arm around her, settling his hand firmly on the small of her back. He cups her cheek with the other, and Elizabeth’s hands instinctively find the lapels of his jacket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After what might be a minute or an hour, she has no idea which, Henry pulls back, eyes blown and cheeks tinted pink. Elizabeth thinks she must look much the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Henry says, his voice full of awe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth hears the blood roaring in her head. “I—” she starts, voice scarcely above a whisper, and stops again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. “Henry, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you want to get dinner with me tomorrow?” he asks. He clearly didn’t hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth has had panic attacks before. When her parents first died, she would wake up in a cold sweat sometimes, convinced the police officer was going to show up at her door again, only this time, he’d be alone. No Will in sight. Dread would coil itself low in her belly, and she’d feel paralyzed, like she couldn’t breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She learned to deal with them, over the years, and it’s been ages since she last had one. But now, she feels the familiar sensation washing over her — her heart races, her breath comes fast and she just wants to disappear. Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I— I’ve got to go,” she stammers out, shaking as she opens the door to her building. “I’ve got to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The latch shuts behind her with a soft click, and Elizabeth runs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth wakes up and her world is silent. It’s her sophomore year at Houghton, and winter break started five days ago. Will’s with friends, skiing in Vail, but she chose to stay at school this year. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aunt Joan went to Paris with a friend, and Elizabeth didn’t much feel like playing happy family with any of hers. She hates the way the parents look at her, like she’s someone to be pitied, how they talk about her life in hushed tones when they think she can’t hear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It must be dreadful, losing your parents so young,</span>
  </em>
  <span> they say, and Elizabeth wants to scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Houghton is operating with a skeleton staff, but Elizabeth has been allowed to stay on campus. She sits up on her bed and pulls the curtains open, watching as sunlight floods her room. Snow fell during the night, and the whole campus is blanketed in it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It looks like a postcard, untouched and pristine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She puts on her warmest socks and slips into a robe before padding down the hall to the kitchenette. The dining hall closed over break, so she’s limited to the convenience store at the corner of campus and whatever she can cook for herself in her dorm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pours herself orange juice and makes a bowl of cereal, taking both to the common area next to the kitchen. There’s a TV there, and Elizabeth turns it on, idly flipping through the channels as she eats her cornflakes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there’s anyone else in the dorm besides Lonny, the security guard downstairs, she can’t tell. The hall is silent save for the low sounds of the television, and she lets the sitcom rerun fade into a hum in the background. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She went into town on the first day, grabbed lunch at the deli and stocked up on food — instant noodles, popcorn, bread and cheese, because she doesn’t trust herself to cook much more — stopping at her favourite bookshop to say hello to the owner’s cat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it started snowing in earnest three days ago, and judging by the scene outside the window, she wouldn’t make it very far on foot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth thought it would be easy. She feels so alone that the prospect of actually being alone didn’t seem like it would be that different, that her books and the TV would be plenty of company. But she hasn’t spoken to a soul in four whole days, and the silence is starting to become deafening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s four days until Christmas, and there’s a leftover tree from the end-of-term party sitting in a corner, branches already drooping. It’s covered in handmade ornaments; her sorry attempt at a snowflake hangs front and centre, glittery and taunting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brown cashmere hat from Aunt Joan in a box on her desk, along with an extra allowance. No card. Will’s probably wearing his hat now, on some black diamond run in Colorado. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At home in Virginia, Christmases were loud and happy and just a little bit chaotic, the whole extended Adams family piled into the living room to open stockings and presents and eat way too many cookies. They baked special ones for Santa, back when she and Will were young enough to believe, frosted gingerbread in the shape of a reindeer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This year’s Christmas dinner will be boxed mac and cheese and stale sugar cookies from the bakery aisle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When her cereal’s gone too soggy to eat, Elizabeth pushes herself up from the couch and flicks the TV off again. She deposits her dishes in the sink, vowing to wash them later, and pads back down the hall to her room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she realizes she’s been reading the same page of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Babysitters Club</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the third time in a row (She borrowed the book from her roommate Pam to see what all the fuss is about, since her aunt said it was nonsense and wouldn’t let her buy a copy.) and hasn’t absorbed a word, Elizabeth decides she might as well go and see how cold it really is outside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Connecticut’s a whole different ballgame than Virginia, so she layers up in a parka and her best boots, two pairs of socks for good measure. She tugs on her new hat with a grimace and roots around her backpack for her gloves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, it’s like the world is holding its breath. It’s completely silent, no wind rustling or people on the quad. There aren’t even any birds in the air; all she can hear is her own breathing, the puffs of air turning white in the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s bright and Elizabeth squints, trying to gauge how many inches they got. It must be up to her knees by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The snow gives way easily, weightless as she flattens it with her foot. She practically sinks into it, and she suddenly feels very small in the white mass, a tiny speck in the universe. It’s reassuring, somehow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spots her favourite oak tree in the distance and sets her course. A line of footprints traces her path in the snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>/</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She manages to avoid Henry for three whole days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But eventually, Monday rolls around and so does their political theory seminar. Though Elizabeth considers pretending she’s sick and not going, she figures that’s an act she can’t keep up for longer than a week — and it’s no use delaying the inevitable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’ll just have to face him, ignore him and hope that he takes the hint. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry’s eyes are on her as soon as she enters the classroom, and she pretends she doesn’t notice, deliberately taking a seat as far away from him as she possibly can. She’s grateful when he stays in his regular one, and she pulls her notebook, pretending to concentrate on the words she’d written last week. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s pretty sure that she doesn’t retain a word of today’s lecture, and she barely participates in the discussion at all. All through the seminar, she can feel Henry’s eyes on her from the other side of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the professor dismisses the class, Elizabeth shoves her books into her backpack, making a beeline for the door. Henry is right on her heels, shouting her name once they make it to the quad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Elizabeth! I just want to talk, just give me one minute, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something half-desperate in his voice that makes her stop in her tracks. She takes a deep breath before she turns around to face him, and the look on Henry’s face nearly breaks her heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Elizabeth, I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, what? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I clearly did something you weren’t comfortable with when I kissed you, and I’m sorry for that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the things she expected to hear, all the anger and confusion and rightful indignation, this isn’t it. He’s apologizing for something that isn’t remotely his fault, and she can’t quite believe it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I kissed you back.” The words are out of her mouth before she realizes it, and she wants to kick herself a little. She did kiss him back, and that’s the whole damn problem. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry looks just as startled, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says, “Okay. You kissed me back, but then you ran.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did, and I’m sorry about that.” She is — honest. She just didn’t know what else to do to stop the world from crashing in on her. “For all of it, really. I just — I can’t —” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns on her heel and starts walking down the quad, but this time Henry’s quicker. He runs in front of her, blocking her path. “Elizabeth!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Henry, would you just —” She doesn’t care that she’s getting angry now, it’s more productive than what she’s been feeling for the past few days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because the thing is, Elizabeth hasn’t been able to forget what it felt like to have Henry’s lips on hers. How it felt like they fit somehow, how twenty seconds were better than every other kiss she’d had before, combined. How she’d really love nothing more than to pull his face down to hers, right now, out in the open, and kiss him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, this boy with his jawline and his soft smile and his penchant for quoting old dead dudes has wormed his way under her skin. He’s like a feeling she can’t shake, and she’s scared of how far she’d be willing to let him in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? What do you want me to do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go, and leave me alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she thought he looked hurt before, it’s nothing compared to the way he physically deflates. Elizabeth’s heart feels like it’s splitting in two. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But this, however painful, is for the best. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I done something to make you this upset?” Henry asks, and there’s a desperation in his tone. She doesn’t doubt his sincerity for a second, and she wants nothing more than to tell him no, that he’s quite literally perfect, but she’s far too broken for someone like him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just can’t, Henry,” is what she settles on. “I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t we talk about it? My mom always says that—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” She cuts him off mid-sentence, and she’s startled by the ferocity of her own words. “We can’t. This is just who I am, okay? Better that I let you go now. Someone like you shouldn’t have to get stuck with the girl with the dead parents, you know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her little speech has the desired effect: Henry’s eyes go wide and he freezes in shock for just long enough that Elizabeth can get a running start and leave him standing there in the middle of the grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows it’s cruel to drop a bomb like that, that he doesn’t deserve it, but she figures it’s one horrid moment that’ll spare him from however long it would otherwise take  to realize that he’s far too good for her. The calculus works out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a five-minute sprint to the stacks, and Elizabeth sinks down to the ground on the library’s second floor in between shelves of art history books. She hugs her knees to her chest, presses her back against the wall and tries desperately to regulate her breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fat, hot tears slip down her cheeks and she takes a shuddering breath, wiping the wetness from her eyes. Kimbark was too far to run to; she needed somewhere quiet and close where she could fall apart alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three months after their parents died, Aunt Joan sent her and Will to a therapist, convinced that a few sessions would “fix” the grief-stricken children. Elizabeth only went twice, and she hated every minute of it, of the platitudes and exercises and talk of how to cope with the “experience.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Years later, the only thing she’s remembered from Dr. Kendall is a stupid breathing excercise. Breathe in for four counts and breathe out for four. Elizabeth focuses on the numbers, closing her eyes and concentrating on the air entering and leaving her lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knees pulled up to her chest, she almost doesn’t notice someone has walked up to her until she feels their footfall on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens her eyes and sure enough, there’s Henry, crouched down on the grey carpet before her, his face unreadable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You followed me,” she replies, equally soft. They’re in the stacks, so it’s not like Elizabeth could scream, even if she wanted to. She’s not sure if she does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?” he asks, and she nods, involuntary. Henry settles down next to her, cross-legged. After a beat, he shrugs and says, “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth snorts. “I should be asking you if you’re okay. I’m the one who yelled at you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry lets out a soft chuckle. “You did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry about that, by the way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She turns her head toward him. “It’s really not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry shrugs. “Okay, then it’s not. But it’s still understandable.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elizabeth doesn’t know why, but the words start spilling out of her, almost involuntarily. “They died when I was fifteen. Car crash. My brother was there, but he was fine. They’d left to go get milkshakes, but I didn’t want to go. I had a math test.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry hasn’t said anything yet, and he’s still looking at her like he was earlier — all kindness and concern. There isn’t an ounce of pity on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My aunt was supposed to take care of us, but she sent us to boarding school instead, right in the middle of a semester. She doesn’t have any kids; it’s not like she would have known what to do with us. I grew up just a few miles from here, actually. Figured coming here was the closest thing I could get to going home.” She shrugs, letting out a short laugh, dry and self-deprecating. “There you have it, the story of </span>
  <em>
    <span>little orphan Elizabeth.”</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for telling me,” Henry says, and he rests his hand on the carpet between them. Elizabeth lays hers on top, squeezing once. His palm is warm against her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not good at this kind of thing,” she says, “opening up to people.” She keeps her eyes trained forward, tries to read the textbooks’ spines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s scary,” Henry says. “I get it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a beat, she lets her head drop down to his shoulder, and they sit there for a minute in silence. It’s quiet save for their breathing, and it’s comfortable. It’s safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t want to run,” she says eventually. “Or yell. Or run again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry I did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s really okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs. “It’s really not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Henry hums. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t know if it’s the warmth bleeding through his jacket, or the quiet of the library, or the irregular stutter of her own heart, but something about sitting here, with this </span>
  <em>
    <span>boy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> makes her feel brave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked me if I wanted to go have dinner with you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it too late to give you an answer?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The prompt: When Elizabeth was younger, she liked to use her parents as a kind of weapon, only bringing them up with people who pushed, and making them feel horribly guilty for asking.</p><p>Come yell at me on twitter (@_epigraphs) or tumblr (@goodthingscomeinthrees).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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